


I'll Bleed Out For You

by noneedforhystereks



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, BAMF!Stiles, M/M, little red!verse, wolves v. hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a legend from long ago. It has been passed down from generation to generation. We all know it well. A little girl in red. A big, bad wolf. A grandmother in the woods. A woodsman with an axe. There is a legend— but there is also a truth to be told.</p><p> </p><p>(ON HIATUS INDEFINITELY)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders, squatting to stir the stew cooking in the pot. Winter was crippling this year, and it’d only just begun. He straightened and rolled his neck, closing his eyes. He had always hated winter. Walking to the window, the boy carefully peered out through the shutters. The village was blanketed in white, a glistening carpet trapping everything beneath it. He scowled at the landscape. It seemed as though he had blinked and fall had whirled away into this stifling, bitter cold. He remembers a bitter cold exactly like this. Ten years ago, winter had chilled him to the bone. It had squeezed out all the warmth in his body. He dared not think what the return of a harsh winter could bring.

The door creaked open and Stiles turned his head to see his father walk through, tracking mud and melting snow on the floor. “What are you watching for?” his father asked, shrugging off his thick jacket and kicking off his boots, “Don’t you know that’s my job, son?” The years showed their wear on the man’s face. Weathered and tanned from constant exposure, Watcher Stilinski looked older than he should. The years, however, had not worn the kindness in his face that betrayed his stern appearance.

“It happened so fast this year,” Stiles answered, “Winter, I mean. Don’t you think it’s weird? Beacon Hills doesn’t usually get so cold so _fast_. It hasn’t been like this— um, not since…” Stiles trailed off and turned back towards the window, leaning on the frame. Understanding flashed across the older man’s face as he appraised his son, how tall and strong he had grown in the past 10 years. He nodded solemnly and put his hands on his hips.

“Go get washed up for supper, son,” his father mumbled quietly. After a moment and a final glance, Stiles pushed off the ledge and walked to the washroom. Closing the door, he ran his hands through his hair and began to wash. The brush scratched against his skin roughly as the day’s grit slipped into the soapy water, leaving his pale skin red and smelling like pine. He tried, with every brushstroke, to scrub the memories of his childhood and winter out of his skin.”

* * *

_It shouldn’t be this quiet_ , Derek thought to himself. He glanced around, surveying the dark woods with a watchful eye. Meeting Isaac’s glance, Derek nodded curtly and continued to take in their surroundings. He inhaled deep, breathing in the night. There was a smell in the air he couldn’t quite figure out and it burned in his nose. He felt rather than saw Laura come towards him. “We should turn back, Laura,” Isaac whimpered out, trying to control the slight panic blossoming in his gut. Derek felt Isaac shift into beta form behind him, anticipating something in the darkness.

“Something isn’t right,” Michael agreed from somewhere behind him.

Laura must have been able to smell their anxiety, which was slipping through practiced, vice-like control. “Where’s Peter?” Laura demanded, avoiding their concerns as she changed back from her full alpha-form. _Damnit, Peter,_ Derek snarled as he scented the air for his uncle’s scent. _Tonight is not the night to test Laura’s patience…_

A howl suddenly pierced the numbing silence. Derek and Michael quickly shifted, claws and teeth lengthening and fur growing. Laura returned to her full alpha form, eyes bleeding red. Derek could smell her fear now, rolling off her in waves. The pack sprinted in the direction of the howl, soon catching Peter’s scent. As the four wolves neared, Derek smelled something else in the air. The distinct smell of human; it was the scent that had escaped him before. And these were not just any humans. An arrow exploded into the trunk of the tree to his right just as he dodged out of its trajectory. Laura roared and spun to face their attackers as Derek and Michael fell behind her, each flanking a different side. Isaac spun around and backed Derek's right side. The smell intensified as the group of humans emerged from the trees, wearing leather and armed to the teeth.

“Derek, honey,” a woman from the rear of the group sang out, “I’m home.”

Derek roared, his hackles rising at the sound of his name. He recognized that voice, the words dripping in honeyed poison. Laura snarled in the direction from which the woman had called, claws twitching and eyes burning a deep crimson. Derek crouched forward, Isaac at his side. He knew this couldn’t end well, but he wouldn’t back down. One of the men from the hunter’s group lunged forward then, curved sword swinging down in an arc intended for Laura. Michael swerved around his alpha and careened into him, knocking the blade from his hands and tearing out the man’s neck. There was a second of silence as the hunters took in the scene before them, before they surged forward and the woods exploded with madness.

Derek tried to pivot around a vicous, blonde-haired woman who had throwing knives trained on him. Swinging away from the tranejctory of the knives, Derek failed to see the dark-skinned hunter barrelling towards him. Mid-leap, the hunter collided into Derek and they both crumpled onto the ground. Laura was parrying blows from the party’s leader; Michael and Isaac were similarly detained fighting off the cackling, blonde woman who had called out to Derek. The beta was alone in this fight. Derek and the hunter were grappling on the ground, Derek slashing and throwing him off. Just as Derek gained the upper hand, he felt a burning pain shoot through his right side, through his ribs. Throwing the man into the nearest tree, Derek glanced down and noticed the silvery dagger protruding about 6 inches below his arm on his right side. Focusing on his wound, Derek tried to pull out the dagger but his vision was already beginning to blur. Wolfsbane-laced daggers worked quickly, but this one must have been enchanted.

Gritting his teeth and clenching his eyes, Derek pulled out the dagger and flung it to the floor. He opened his eyes just in time to see the hunter sprinting towards him. Derek crouched down, limbs shaking with his efforts to stay conscious, and braced himself. When the hunter was almost on him, he flung himself to his left and twisted around the human. As he swerved around the man, Derek saw a black form fly through his peripheral vision. He had no sooner turned around when Laura had thrown herself onto the hunter and sunk her teeth into the man’s neck. After she was satisfied with her bite, she dropped him onto the ground. The woman from before screamed out, frantically trying to make her way to Laura. A lean, grey-haired man with a bleeding gash down the side of his face braced her in his arms and was dragging her further into the woods. Only two hunters followed them.

“Your blood is mine, Hale! We will finish what we’ve started,” she screamed out, throat raw with rage.

Derek turned to face Laura, still bent over the ground watching the hunter she had bitten, but he passed out before he could say a word.  Convulsing on the ground, he felt his body shift out of his beta form. It felt like fire was coursing through his bloodstream; every twitch of his muscles brought another wave of liquid fire through his veins. Derek felt hands on his head and on his side. He could only guess Isaac was bent over him, trying frantically to speed the healing process. Heavy, fuzzy sounding voices spoke to him but Derek couldn’t understand what they were saying; it sounded as though they were speaking with cotton in their mouth. He was slowly fading into blackness when he felt a cracking in his ribcage. He choked on the black bile violently erupting from his mouth as he sped toward the light. Jerking awake, he spasmed and his back arched away form the ground. After a few more moments of vomiting, he felt his body calm as it healed itself.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Isaac croaked in greeting, relief flooding his face.

* * *

Michael had found Peter tied to an enormous rowan tree with wolfsbane rope. He was unconscious and half-shifted into his beta form; the rope left black, weeping burns across his mangled skin. Hefting him onto his shoulders, Michael had hauled him back over to the rest of the pack. Laura slung the still-unconscious hunter across her shoulders and led the pack back into Hale land. The pack trekked the few hours back into their territory before Derek felt himself collapsing on Isaac again. They stopped for a rest in a den that had long since been abandoned 

“They were torturing him; they were burning him into calling for us,” Michael sounded numb. Derek glanced over at Peter, wrapped in furs and sleeping on one of the cots in the room. The burns were healing slowly, the skin meshing itself back together. It would be days before the beta would be able to hunt again. Derek looked away from his uncle, unable to stomach the pain he felt for him. He trained his eyes on Michael instead, who was glaring into the fire. His face was masked in hatred, his eyes burning red for the briefest of moments before they settled back into their normal blue.

“We didn’t know they…we couldn’t have known he had been captured,” Isaac tried, valiantly, to defend Michael from his guilt. The tension was slowly suffocating everyone in the room.

“We should have!” Michael snarled and lunged towards Isaac, claws and fangs already out. Before he could land a blow on the boy, Laura stepped in between the two wolves. Her eyes flashed red once and Michael sheathed his fangs. He huffed out a sigh of frustration and turned away from them. Walking over to the mattress on the floor, he quickly crawled in with his back to the rest of the pack.

“Peter volunteered to scout ahead. He knew the risks. The Argents were waiting; it could have been any one of us,” Laura spoke calmly and evenly. Derek could feel the amount of effort the alpha was exercising in trying to stay in control.

Isaac whined and he stepped out from behind Laura, crouched down and slowly moving towards Derek’s cot. Derek smelled his fear and his distress, his compassion for his fellow beta winning out over his need to be alone. He curtly nodded his head, allowing Isaac to sit on the edge of his cot. The mattress dipped forward as the young wolf sat down, hands trembling in his lap.

“Will the new wo—,” Isaac tried to change the subject but stopped himself before the word was out of his mouth, “the hunter…will the bite take?”

Laura looked down at the far end of the cabin, where the bitten hunter was lying crumpled on the floor. She sighed heavily and rubbed her hand over her face. She took a few steps toward her mate before she sat down on the edge of the mattress. Michael turned to look at her and an unspoken conversation passed between the two alphas. Laura bent down and kissed Michael softly before she too, crawled in beside him.

“He’s been healed since we walked in through the door,” Laura mumbled out, letting sleep finally claim her.

* * *

“Well, haven’t you ever just felt like you were meant for something…more?”

Stiles scoffed and crammed another bite of bread into his mouth. Scott had forgone his piece in his excitement. Apparently, Scott had found his “greater purpose”. To the surprise of no one, least of all Stiles, this sign came to Scott in the form of a beautiful girl. Nay, a beautiful and truly unattainable girl.

“Yeah, I get that feeling sometimes. And then I realize I can make it go away with more cheesebread,” Stiles replied through a mouthful of food.

“You’re a shit best friend,” Scott muttered, his face falling into a pitiful pout.

“You’re a lunatic.”

“How does wanting to serve the greater good in the name of love make me a lunatic?”

“Did you even hear the words that just came out of your mouth?”

Scott punched Stiles in the shoulder then, face scrunched up into a scowl. Stiles choked on his mouthful of cheesebread and flailed, knocking himself off the bench. Landing on the floor, he looked up at Scott and swallowed his food. Tilting his head, he smirked.

“Yeah, real valiant of you. Reacting with brute violence. You’re just what the Guard is looking for,” he muttered, getting back onto his feet.

“Well, I guess decency is something I can learn. In _training_. Maybe you could learn some, too, if you joined up,” Scott was leering at him now. One mocking tilt of his head and then the boy stuffed the last piece of bread into his mouth.

Of all the half-thought-out, harebrained schemes for Scott to dream up: this could quite possibly be the worst. The Guard was a legendary army of hunters tasked with protecting the Empire from the threat of Wolves. The First Guard had been made up of a noble family of French warriors, well versed in the ways of the supernatural and battle. Throughout the ages, descendants of the Original Family have led factions of the Guard throughout the Empire. Every ten years, each faction selects twelve young warriors to take hoods and compete for spots among their ranks. These young recruits are called Hoods and the price for their place as one of the elite has remained unchanged since the inception of the Guard: one wolf kill in the next ten years, before the new Hoods are recruited. Those that make their kills are given black hunting suits in place of the red robes and offered a permanent place within the hallowed ranks of the Guard.

“I have absolutely no business entertaining this notion of yours. ‘Greater purpose’, my ass,” Stiles spat out. Scott looked at him again, eyes wide with pleading. Stiles scowled at him in response but he knew he would be going through with yet another one of Scott’s ideas.

“If the gods are kind, they won’t let either of us make the Hood.”

Scott whooped and lapped him on the back before pulling him into a tight hug. Stiles was regretting this already.


	2. Chapter 2

The temple was fairly empty, save for the few devout who frequented daily. The devoted few, armed with sacrifices and offerings: gifts to gods long gone blind and deaf to the plights of men. Stiles huffed out a frustrated breath and broke his gaze away from the weeping woman kneeling in front of the dark stone statue of the Moon Goddess, Ylva. As a child, she had been his favorite among the gods. His mother had told him stories of the powerful and beautiful Ylva, of her immense strength, powerful magic, and unworldly beauty. When he was a small child, his favorite story had been that of Ylva’s children. When Ylva had grown full in her power, she had created her children in her likeness and sent them from the god’s realm to the human world. Once there, her children lived as guardians of the forest and holders of great magic. They served as a link between the world of men and the world of the gods: blessed with the ability to change form, shedding human skin to run through the forests and sing praise to their Moon Mother. Stiles’ mother had often spoken of Ylva’s wolf children in many of her stories.

“The children of Ylva are our protectors, mo stóirín, sent to us from dia coillte,” Stiles remembers her voice, warm and raspy. “That is the price of the goddess’ blessings: they are bound to protect us in domhan daonna.”

But they had not been there to protect his mother. What good was any belief in magic when it could not save the person he loved most?

Bringing himself back to the present, Stiles took a few steps towards the altar and stopped.  Above the altar, set against the stone walls, were enormous woven tapestries depicting the sacred beginnings of the Guard. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the bloody images. He couldn’t understand how a child could have ever felt safe here. How could he have ever felt at home in the unsettling quiet of the temple? The cold, grey stone walls had lost their comfort. Now, they made Stiles feel as though they could swallow him whole. He hadn’t stepped foot inside the sanctuary since his childhood. Belief in the Gods had been replaced with a belief in what he could see with his eyes and what he could do with his hands. He had lost his faith when he lost his mother.

“Hello, Watcher’s son,” a voice greeted quietly. “It has certainly been a long time.”

Stiles jumped, head snapping around as he startled.

“Gods, you’re just as terrifying as I remember,” Stiles squeaked as his hand clutched at his chest, willing his heart to stop pounding against his ribcage.

“What can I help you with, Stiles?” Brother Deaton asked calmly. He seemed to disregard Stiles’ commentary. In fact, he seemed to disregard Stiles completely, choosing instead to stare contemplatively at the tapestries adorning the walls of the sanctuary.

“Who says I need help? Maybe I came inside to be one with my faith and pledge my eternal servitude to the mighty gods of the old world,” Stiles replied, flinging his arms out and throwing back his head. He chuckled to himself as he waited for Deaton to react.

Deaton, however, remained unimpressed. His eyebrow twitched upward and his mouth flattened into a straight line. Glancing at Stiles briefly, he motioned Stiles to follow as he walked out of the sanctuary and into the temple’s gardens.

“I know about the McCall boy’s plans to join the Guard,” Deaton announced as he and Stiles stopped next to a large tree. Its trunk was vast in its girth, far too thick to be a normal rowan. Yet the gnarled brown and grey trunk was unmistakable. The red berries were absent, the branches growing brittle and barren as it lost its leaves in the biting cold of winter.

“I know you are planning to take the Hood, as well. What I do not know, is why.”

Stiles blanched, all pretense of carefully controlled apathy dropping away. How had Deaton found out? He and Scott had only spoken the day before. No one had been near them when they met, something Scott had absolutely made sure of before sitting to speak. Scott would never have told Deaton—of that, Stiles was certain. So how did he know?

“Do not concern yourself with your questions. Answer mine.”

“I want to,” Stiles replied icily. “And someone should keep an eye on Scott. I always have. All things considered, it seems reasonable I be the one to go with him to the Black Keep.”

Stiles scratched his fingers into the deep grooves of the rowan’s mottled trunk. He picked at scabs on the tree’s surface, gouging the bark until sap oozed bright and sticky. After a moment, he resumed speaking.

“And it’s not as if I have anything else to do, here in the village. What greatness awaits the inept son of the great Watcher Stilinski? Who knows, the Hood could be good for me, priest? Think of the opportunities! Besides, I think red would do wonders for my complexion.”

Deaton sighed heavily in response. He sat down on a stone bench, a few paces away from the tree and gestured for Stiles to follow suit. Suddenly, he looked older, all the age coming into his face at once. The grey of the sky reflected in the pallor of Deaton’s face.

“Your love for your friend is honorable, Stiles. You have always gone wherever Scott has ventured, even as a child. The Gods have blessed you with the gift of Fealty: a truly remarkable and sacred gift. However, do not misconstrue this gift for blind loyalty. You have seen your sixteenth winter. You are no longer a young boy. It is time to stop following in the footsteps of those you love. It is time you found your own path: the path the Gods have planned for you.”

“I have had enough of the plans of your Gods,” Stiles remarked tersely.

“Do not presume to know more than those who have created you and the world you live in,” Deaton warned. “You may be trespassing on a road not meant for you to walk.”

He spoke softly, voice just above a careful whisper, and looked Stiles in the face. There was a kindness in Deaton’s voice that Stiles had never before heard from the priest. It left Stiles feeling small and pinned down, like an insect trapped under a stone.

Deaton continued softly, “Whether or not you believe in them, the Gods will continue to exist. They will continue to watch over and guide you. You cannot run from your fate, Watcher’s Son. Fighting your faith will not prevent what is destined– it will only prolong it.”

“Scott and I are leaving for the Black Keep in three days’ time. How’s that for destiny?” Stiles spat bitterly.

Who was Deaton to tell him what he was destined for? What he should or could not do? Stiles knew what he was meant to do. And staying in Beacon Hills while Scott traipsed through the forests of the Empire was not his path to walk.

“Guide me?” Stiles cackled bitterly at the thought. “Where was their guidance ten winters ago? They guided my mother to her grave. My mother needed their watchful protection in her sickbed. My unborn brother or sister needed their power in my mother’s womb. I don’t need anything from gods who have grown careless with the people they put in and take out of this world. I am forging my own path, Holy Brother. And that path leads to the Black Keep.” 

Deaton shook his head, looking away from Stiles to study the circle of white rowans in the center of the garden. Smaller and younger than the one at their backs, the trees had been planted when Stiles was a child. He knew the two graves buried at their center.

“If you feel the Guard is where you belong, then I urge you to pursue the Hood with everything the Gods have gifted you,” he began, the words coming out slow and steady. Carefully measured. “But I must also urge you to be cautious: there are bigger things at work than a pursuit of fame and glory. And there are things worse than tapestry-woven monsters beyond these walls.”

Stiles scoffed. 

“Heed my warning, child.”

Deaton straightened in his seat, “Now, as far as your faith is concerned: do not close your eyes and think yourself impervious to the unseen, simply because you choose not to see them. You open yourself up to destruction when you walk blinded.”

Deaton was many things, but a prophet? No. There were things even a priest could not do. Stiles nodded and stood to depart, choosing to leave his words unsaid.

“May the Moon keep you, Cionnfhaoladh,” Deaton called as Stiles walked back into the temple.

Stiles turned, mouth agape.

“And may Her stars light your every path,” he replied, old words of farewell slipping from his tongue before he could stop them- and with an uncomfortable ease.

* * *

Isaac threw Boyd to the floor, twisting his body to grip the Wolf firmly by the throat. Again, the new Wolf had failed to make it around him. He had been much closer to the goal this time, almost having caught Isaac by the neck in a moment of weakness.

He was learning quickly.

Isaac looked up at Derek, seeking approval and Derek’s eyes flashed blue in response. Isaac grinned and released Boyd’s throat, all traces of aggression gone as he smiled at his sparring partner. Laura remained unimpressed from her perch on a fallen tree. The lichen-covered carcass lay a few yards away from the sparring circle, but Derek could feel his alpha’s stare. The hunters would only stay away so long before the next attack and they had to be ready: new wolves and old, both.

Training had been going well that morning, all things considered. Peter was still weakened and refused to leave the stillness of the cabin with Michael keeping watch. The new Wolf, however, was powerful and intelligent, a gifted strategist, and, above all, patient. He took instruction well and he was proving to be a skilled combatant. It was no wonder he had ended up in the Guard, Derek mused. He would make an excellent addition to the pack in time.

“You’re thinking too much. Carefully planned strategy only goes so far in combat,” Derek grunted, helping Boyd off the floor. “When you’re planning out every move 5 steps in advance, you miss out on what’s happening in front of you. It’s as much instinct as it is strategy.”

“And you have stronger instincts now. Heightened senses. A different kind of power under your skin. Tap into it. Take advantage of your Wolf. Use him,” Isaac chirped, sidling up to Laura. 

Laura hummed thoughtfully and rubbed the back of Isaac’s neck, running her hand through the curls on top of his head. Isaac thrived on affection and closeness; it had taken Derek, meanwhile, years to grow accustomed to touching him. It was easier now, and Derek prided himself in the growth of his packmate, but Laura reveled in the closeness with Isaac.

Boyd nodded and set himself up to try again. Derek admired his tenacity and drive. They had been training all morning and Boyd had yet to complain or ask to rest. Isaac cracked his neck, resuming his place inside the training circle after a nod from Derek.

“Again,” Derek commanded.

Boyd and Isaac circled each other slowly. Derek’s shivered as the tension inside the combat circle increased. Boyd’s eyes flashed gold and then he surged forward towards Isaac, barely missing him by a hair’s breadth of space. There was a flash of teeth as Boyd lurched to the side and tackled Isaac, both Wolves sprawling to the floor. Boyd had Isaac pinned in seconds, claws digging into his throat. Despite the claws alarmingly close to ending his life, and already drawing blood, Isaac grinned widely.

“Well done,” Isaac wheezed. 

Derek looked to Laura seeking approval. She nodded briefly and walked back towards the cabin. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. 

Well done, indeed.

* * *

Deaton stirred his tea, looking towards the door. After his earlier visit with the Stilinksi boy, it was only a matter of time until his next visitor would arrive. He hardly startled when the sound of rapping on his door accompanied a gruff, “Open the door, priest!”

Deaton chuckled to himself, pleased with his foretelling.

He unlocked the thick wooden door into his room in the back of the temple. It swung open with a loud creak and the man calmly walked inside, his tense face betraying his fury. He was coughing, loud and hacking, and covering his face with a handkerchief.

“Good evening, Gerard,” Deaton greeted, sipping his tea.

“What did you tell him?” the wizened man demanded. His voice was muffled from the handkerchief in front of his mouth. “What does he know?”

“Nothing you should be concerned about,” Deaton reassured him. “I only advised him as to the dangers of tempting fate…and the Gods.”

Gerard scoffed and dropped onto a chair, the wood creaking under the sudden strain. It had been many years since Deaton had seen Gerard Argent, and the years showed on the man’s face. Time marked its passing in scars and lines on the man’s face; Argent’s severity was exaggerated by the starkness of his hair, a shock of white against a shadowed face. He looked sickly and his skin pulled tight across the bones in his face. His sallow, yellowish skin reminded Deaton of an old, stained bed sheet pulled too tight across its mattress.

“You swore an oath, Alan,” Gerard was quick to remind him, as if the weight of that oath hadn’t pressed against Deaton’s chest every day for the last ten years. “Bound by the magic of your gods.”

He began to shout another accusation but he was interrupted as another fit of coughing wracked through his body. He spat into his handkerchief, mouth still covered. Deaton felt a chill through his bones but he settled in his chair and sipped his tea

Deaton replied somberly, “And I have kept it. Can you say the same?”

The silence that followed was stifling. It settled within the room like the blanket of snow covering the ground just outside, freezing everything caught underneath. Gerard met Deaton’s gaze and smirked. Where once-white teeth should have been, a blackened grin now jutted out from pale gums. As Gerard pulled the handkerchief away from his mouth, Deaton could see the black mess inside the cloth. 

“I’m alive, am I not?”

Deaton regarded the man before him with horrified disgust. Gerard Argent was the master of manipulation; there was bound to be some loophole in his oath he had been very careful to leave open when making his oath. Ten years and the priest had never thought to question a hunter’s motives behind peace.

He felt a tremble in his hands as he spoke. “You promised to leave the pack alive. You—”

“I promised to leave a surviving pack,” Gerard spat. “I have ensured their survival.”

The wind outside the house stopped, as if it to was shocked into silence. Deaton was fighting to keep his composure, but it was a losing fight. “Gerard, what—,” he couldn’t bring himself to voice his fears. This had to be a misunderstanding or a trick, surely.

“A single omega is a dead Wolf, but a pack can survive with a minimum of two Wolves,” Gerard sneered. Black spittle dripped from his chin. He looked more like a monster than most of the things the Guard hunted.

Deaton’s stomach dropped.

“Argent, what have you done?”

Gerard smiled, more black oozing from his teeth.

“Your gods asked for sacrifices,” he clarified, “yes? And you collected blood in cups and painted rocks and trees with your devotion. You slayed animals and burned their bodies on altars. You ask for sacrifices from your people, still, do you not? Coin and cloth and tithes from the harvest. You call it an offering, but it all means the same thing: sacrifice.”

“I fear, you misunderstand the meaning behind the action. It is to show selflessness; to demonstrate the purity and strength of faith. Gerard, I ask again: what have you done to the Hale pack?”

“It’s a curious thing, the sacrifices we make,” Gerard ignored the priest’s question. He brought a blackened knife from inside of his cloak and laid it on the table. “Little bits and pieces of ourselves that we lose or give up. We all make sacrifices. Some, we make for love. Others, for honor. Some sacrifices, however, we make for our own survival.”

The knife glimmered in the dull candlelight. Gerard twirled it on its point, digging into the soft wood of the table. 

“Tell me, Alan, what would your precious witch think of the sacrifices you have made?”

Deaton stood and walked behind his chair, gripping the edge of his seat. He spoke through his teeth, “I saved your life. Do not forget the price of that kind of magic. You swore, to old gods and new, to leave the Hale pack alone. Your kind has done enough to those poor children. And for ten years you have kept your promise. Why break it now? Why spit in the face of the gods?

“Your gods! Not mine,” Gerard bellowed. The old man shook with his contempt, his eyes bloodshot and wide. He stabbed the knife into the wood, where it sunk with a thud. “The gods of a world ancient and long-since replaced, dear friend.”

Deaton slumped against the wall of the room, his bones suddenly too heavy to keep upright. He remembered amber eyes, bright and warm. He remembered the way those eyes had looked the last time he saw them, darkened with pain and fear. Gods forgive him.

“There is something happening. You keep the old ways. You watch the forest, priest. Tell me: do you feel it as well?” Gerard rose from his seat, leaving the knife embedded in the table. 

Deaton had no more time for games and allusions. “Argent, of what madness do you speak?”

Gerard stood shakily and strode towards the door, clutching his thick, greasy hunter’s cloak around his frail shell of a body. He coughed once more into his sodden kerchief, wet and painted, before replying, “The time of Ylva’s children is coming to an end. It is the end of the time of monsters.”

The door shut with a gust of wind. There was a horse’s whinny and then silence. Deaton rubbed at his face with a trembling hand

No, Deaton thought to himself, the time of monsters is just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Niko (luna-savant.tumblr.com) for pre-reading and being an awesome beta for this chapter.
> 
> Next installment should be up soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Splitting my time between this and my Daddy!Stiles/Mechanic!Derek fic, so updates might be kind of slow.
> 
> Title is taken from Imagine Dragons' "Bleeding Out"
> 
> Find me on tumblr!
> 
> Personal: anaisnt  
> Fandom/Fic updates: downward-sterek-spiral


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